


Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Harasses You in Purgatory

by godtiermeme



Category: Homestuck
Genre: $20 i don't finish this, Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Gen, Hispanic Karkat, Humanstuck, Kinda ghosty, M/M, Vague References to Suicide, lol who knows what's going to happen if anything happens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-28
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-12 20:04:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9088258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/godtiermeme/pseuds/godtiermeme
Summary: Let's say there's a realm, superimposed atop ours, where the dead go. But it's not all of the dead. Only those who die without fulfilling their purpose or truly "making peace" with themselves go to this realm, and only through making their peace can they escape it.Now, let's say there's a certain Karkat Vantas. Freshly deceased, but a lifelong crab. Predictably (and as we have established), he dies. Unpredictably, he's greeted by an annoying blond, who promises to help him reach the vaguely coveted light at the end of tunnel.





	1. KV 620

**Author's Note:**

> inspired partially by Neal Shusterman's _Everlost_ , which is apparently the first book in a series, but i've only ever read everlost so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ also more mozart fuck it i'm naming chapters after kochel catalogue numbers again no one can stop me

You should have known better than to run from your problems, but college loans and abysmal employment opportunities are a real fucking bitch. You also should have known better than to fall asleep on overgrown railroad tracks, but they didn't _look_ like they were used. In fact, you would swear that the vines were growing over the tracks, and that they would have definitely been severed if there was regular use. Unfortunately for you, those assumptions were patent bullshit, and you were predictably killed by a train driven by a horrified and overworked conductor.

 _Fortunately_ for you, your death was swift and painless. You were asleep when it happened, and the only real damage was to the conductor's psyche. This story isn't about that, though, it's about _you_.

Your name is Carlos Vantas—though you prefer to go by Karkat, your username on most websites—and, on a cold December night in the year of 2016, you died. You were twenty years old, and would have turned twenty-one in the spring, had you not made the unfortunate decision to act upon a faulty assumption. At the time of your death, you were wearing a comfortable university sweatshirt and black sweatpants. Considering the cold weather, you'd also thrown on a grey scarf, which had been given to you by your older brother.

You, however, don't realize you're dead yet. No, for the time being, you can only assume that you're waking up from an uneventful night's rest.

Now, as you come to, you realize that you're still wearing the same clothes. Since it's still dark out, you guess that you've woken earlier than usual. Neither of these things are very surprising. What _is_ surprising to you is that you're being pestered by a soft, albeit annoying, voice. The words have a distinctive southern twang, with the vowels often being drawn out longer than they should be. "Well, fuck me sideways with a duck's corkscrew dick," is the first thing you hear, followed by an equally crude statement, "You sure did a number on yourself, didn't'cha?"

"What?" You groan and rub your eyes before yawning. After a few moments, your vision begins to clear. A man comes into view—pale and tall. His eyes are hidden behind a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses, and a shit-eating smirk is etched across his face. He appears to be about your age. "Who the fuck are you?" It's not the most charming greeting you could give, but you're also in the middle of nowhere. To have someone just randomly stumble across you would be some sort of fucked up coincidence.

"I always get the assholes," the man mutters. Then, inexplicably, he disappears. When he speaks again, you have to turn around to see him. "Name's Dave Strider."

"How'd you do that?" you sputter.

"Do what?" Again, he disappears in a puff of white smoke. Then, like some sort of sadistic cartoon character, he reappears behind you. Once again, only his voice tips you off. "This? Oh." The smirk fades, only to be replaced by a nervous frown. He tugs at the red sleeves of his baseball shirt as he heaves a long, heavy sigh. "Damn," he whistles. "You don't know what happened, do you?"

"Over here!" A woman's voice travels from somewhere in the distance. Soft and far-off, but distinct. "I saw it over here! It was—" She trails off, sobbing. Then, as the noise of footsteps grows closer, she manages to explain herself further. "I saw a hand. Just a hand, and it was somewhere around..."

"Shit!" You exclaim. "Did I fall asleep on a fucking crime scene again? Fuck!" You look around, trying to see what the hell the woman is talking about. In the meantime, it dawns upon you that the blond bastard is nowhere to be found. "Dave?"

A flashlight beam hits you square in the face. After blinking away the momentary blindness, you can make out the shape of a woman. Trailing her are two bleary-eyed police officers.

"Skaia University?" one of the officers says, stroking his admirable, finely-groomed mustache, "Didn't one of the students go missing a while ago?"

"Yeah, his room was covered in fucking pig's blood and... Oh shit." The other officer, a squat woman, who appears to be in her late forties, frowns. She removes her hat and holds it to her chest. "I think we found 'em."

"I'm right here?" you mutter, dazedly.

Meanwhile, the other officer comforts the sobbing civilian woman. He pats her on the back with stiff, awkward movements. "It's okay, ma'am," he says, sounding unsure of his own words.

You frown. You rise to your feet and move to look down, only to find yourself stopped by the sudden reappearance of the smug blond.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you," he warns, his expression as serious as fifteen simultaneous heart attacks.

"Why not? You're not my fucking mother," you huff, preparing yourself to look down.

Dave, however, stops you again. He disappears, jabs you in the side, and explains himself, "It ain't pretty down there. I hate to break it to you, bud, but you got yourself hit by a train. And let me reassure you that you do _not_ want your last glimpse of your corporeal self to be the massive mess you left behind. You've already traumatized three people." As if to further prevent you from finding out what the hell is going on, he grabs you by the shoulder.

There's a moment of complete silence. Not even the wind's quiet, pervasive sigh is audible. Then, as an empty stretch of farmland forms around you, the noise returns. The wind blows, and bare tree branches groan and crack.

"Sorry," Dave offers you a nervous half-smile as he straightens his shades. "I don't normally do that without asking, but I'm not letting anyone repeat what happened to my stupid ass. See, I kind of did myself in. Stepped into heavy traffic and _fucking WHAM!_ Eighty miles per hour eighteen-wheeler to the face. I didn't have anyone to help me out, so I looked and it was one hell of a realization. I prefer to let my charges in on the secret real slow-like, y'know?"

"No," you hiss, "I don't fucking know. What the fuck is happening?"

"In the simplest of terms, you're dead. You've passed on. You are in a better place. You've kicked the proverbial bucket, and now you're in limbo. Well... kind of. As it is, everyone who didn't make it to where they should have been when they died ends up here." Burying his hands in his pockets, Dave shrugs. He shifts his weight back and forth, from his heels to his toes. "You have to find what you didn't have in life, or whatever it was your goal was, and attain it. Of course, that's easier said than done, and I've got jack shit to go off of for my own goal, but I guess it'll never happen. I've been here for a solid ten years, so..."

"This has to be a joke. This is some sort of fucking joke." As if to prove this, you trot over to the open well. It's one of those old-fashioned stone ones, the sort where a bucket draws up water and disease in a single, easy dunk. You assume it's only for decoration. "I'll prove it! This is some sort of fucking stupid dream! I ate a bad mushroom or something, and now mother nature is laughing her ass off at my stupidity. Watch!" With this said, you promptly jump into the well.

Yet, when you hit the dry-stone bottom, you feel no pain. In fact, you find yourself exactly where you'd expect to be—a dark, deep hole in the goddamned ground.

And, to add insult to a complete lack of reasonable injury, the blond bastard's voice calls to you from above. "I told you, man. You're dead. I'm your unofficial guide in this fucked up afterlife." Then, he appears beside you. He repeats the odd shoulder-grabbing trick, and you're once again teleported to the field. "You can't die twice here, man. You just move on and go to whatever the hell the bright light at the end of the metaphorical tunnel is."

"Lovely," you snarl. "I'm dead, and all I have to show for it is this goddamned idiot ghost stalker."

"I'm just trying to help. I've been stuck here for ten years, don't get up my ass about your sob story. You fell asleep on train tracks. At least I _knew_ what I was doing." With this said, Dave shrugs. Again, he starts rocking back and forth. It's a habit that will certainly be a massive annoyance for what seems to be a long, long while to come. "Anyhow, you've got to make peace with some shit before you can leave this hell-hole, so I figure I might as well tag along. Most people here are either too old for me to really hang out with or so young it's creepy for me to chill around them."

Around now, it hits you. "Shit. If I'm dead, Slick is going to fucking _freak the fuck out_."

"You really love the F-bomb, don't you?"

"No, no! Shut up, dammit. I mean..."

"I suggest you don't go back home, dude. Um... I didn't actually get your name." Dave frowns. He turns his face away from you and rubs the back of his neck. The rocking begins to slow; eventually, he comes to a halt.

"Karkat Vantas. Well... Carlos. But I go by Karkat." You, too, frown.

"Weird, but I'm not judging. I'd stay behind for now. We ghostly folk can't do much with the so-called real world, so it'll be rough to see how your death screws with people. But, if that’s what you want, I'll help out."

"So, what? You'll wizard it up and fucking teleport again?"

A short, vaguely insincere laugh precedes the response. "Nah. I can't do that. You can't teleport very far. This is actually a field maybe a quarter of a mile away from your bloody mess, so we didn't go all that far. Besides, it's pretty hard to teleport, and I'm not sure I've got enough energy left to do much for a while."

"You could have left me in the well, for all the help you're worth," you grumble.

Dave, in return, pouts. He sticks out his bottom lip, perfectly mirroring the look of a petulant toddler. "That's hurtful, Karkat. You have hurt my feelings, but I will still aid you, for I am a good person."

"So good that you've been stuck in fucking purgatory for ten years, apparently," you mumble.

He seems to shrug this off. Instead of responding, he waves for you to lead the way.

Having been forced into some stupid scout regiment as a kid, you're able to extrapolate your direction from the stars. You set your jaw, bury your hands in your pockets, and begin to trudge northwards.

For now, you have no idea where you are. All you know is that you fled south, and that you'll be able to get home once you know where the university is.

"If it's any consolation, we don't need to sleep. So, we'll cover a lot of ground," Dave pipes up from behind.

You reply with a disinterested huff. At any rate, being stuck listening to this idiot's prattling for what might be an eternity seems like some sort of hell to you. Maybe you _are_ in hell, and Dave is some sort of lying, shape-shifting demon. Who fucking knows!? Certainly, not you.

And, obviously, not Dave. In fact, Dave seems completely oblivious, because he continues blathering shortly after you give him the initial cold shoulder. "You have any idea what you're going to need to move on? I mean... I obviously don't know what _I_ need to do, since I'm still here. But you might. A lot of people seem to have a vague sense of, 'Oh, I need to do this to make it to the other side.'"

"I don't know," you reply.

"Well, we'll find out," retorts Dave, his voice filled with a sense of optimism and blissfulness that, at this minute, makes you want to punch him in the face. You even begin to flex your fingers in preparation.

However, you assume that doing so might smudge your soul, or something like that. So, instead, you bite your tongue and bury your hands in the pocket of your sweatshirt.

**_Your name is Karkat Vantas, and this is going to be one long, long journey to the whatever's in the goddamned afterlife._ **


	2. KV 554

"I used to live around here. Y'know... When I wasn't dead. I lived around here for a while with a foster family." As if it will somehow help him make his case clear, he begins to point out things on the distant horizon. "That old flagpole's made out of a guardrail someone stole from the highway. I knew him. Weird man. Called himself The Mayor and built his house entirely out of mortared-together cans. Crushed to death by the house, but he never came here, so I guess he knew what he was doing."

A long, drawn-out sigh escapes you, and you have the feeling you'll be doing this more and more often. Obviously, Dave doesn't know when to shut up. On the other hand, this is better than being alone with nothing but the sound of the wind and the occasional moans of cattle. Only marginally better, though; it's definitely not a homerun win.

"His house is still there, though," Dave continues his story, blissfully unaware of how annoying he is. "I checked a few years back. Apparently, places that a lot of people love and remember fondly stick around until their memory fades. The can house was definitely a tourist attraction around here, so I'm sure it'll be around for a while. I mean... I _hope_ it's around for a while. It's a nifty place."

"Mhm," you grunt, purely to appease him. As long as he thinks he's being listened to, he seems to continue speaking. The few times you've forgotten to acknowledge him, he eventually trailed off into silence. "Great."

"Yeah!" There's genuine excitement in his voice, though it's poorly masked by an attempt at a disinterested monotone. That seems to be his default. A shitty monotone that you're sure a preschooler could see through. "If we keep going north, we'll pass Old Man Droog's windmill. Now that I think about it, there were a lot of weirdos in this town. One guy in a house made of tin cans, and another guy who lived in a reclaimed windmill. Definitely one of the better places I lived in with a foster family."

There's a brief pause. A quick glance back tells you that Dave is thinking. He worries his lip and fiddles with something in his pocket. Then, he speaks. "Next place wasn't so hot. A cramped apartment with a pair of real shitheads. I hated both of them, which is why I ran away. Long story short, this is probably the last place I had any sort of fun before I went six feet under."

Here, _you_ pause. The words sink in, and you find that you're vaguely interested in what he has to say. Of course, that can be chocked up to the fact that he's the only other person within who knows how many miles, and that you're not too fond of absolute silence. Hoping that you're not about to dredge up years of angst and sob stories, but knowing you probably will, you question him. "You ran away from home? What were you, fifteen?"

"Seventeen. Died when I was eighteen," Dave says this matter-of-factly, and it manages to tug at a heartstring. However, it's doing nothing for the fact that he's still an annoying twit. "Anyhow, that's a long, stupid story. The point is that there's some pretty cool shit around here, and we can try and pick up some supplies for the future. Travelling gets old fast, so having cards and games and all that is always convenient."

You nod slowly and begin to filter him out.

You have your own issues to sort out, dammit.

First of all, you're still in shock over being fucking dead. It's not something that happens every day. In fact, it's a once-in-a-lifetime event, and you definitely didn't want it to be like it was. You had planned on dying a successful old man, surrounded by children borne of the eternal love between yourself and some unnamed fuckface. You'd die in a mansion built from the spoils of your romantic novels, which would have been made into critically acclaimed films dozens of times over.

Then, there's the obvious personal shit. You're dead. Now, what about your friends and family?

Sollux is going to be crushed. And he'll never get that super awesome decal you ordered for him for his birthday. That'll probably get thrown out when your dorm room is cleaned out. And Slick will probably have to do all the postmortem arrangements, because it's not like you wrote a will. You didn't _plan_ to be dead this soon. On the bright side, you'll piss off your high school ex, Delilah. God forbid you die and inconvenience her by having Slick invite her to come to your funeral.

"So, weird question, but did you manage to see the newest _Star Wars_ movie before you died?" Dave's inquiry is odd enough to startle you back into reality—or, rather, whatever fucked up unreality this is. "I _could_ get into one, but I feel weird doing that. Feel like I should be paying, you know? So, I didn't get to see it. Episode VII, that is. Not the newest new one."

Despite your newfound interest in the conversation, however, you have to turn him down. "Nope. I'm not a big science fiction person. Aliens are fucking weird."

"Aliens are coming to invade the planet and mine human ingenuity for an intergalactic war," Dave responds quite matter-of-factly, and you're honestly not sure if he's being serious. "It's gonna' happen, bro, and it'll be fun to watch."

"You're a fucking twit." You bury your hands in your pockets, watching with disinterest as a strong wind makes the dried-out, overgrown grass around you undulate like ocean waves. You look upwards, to the moon, and wonder whether or not it would be better to be here, or to be a lonely, isolated human on its barren surface. Not much thought is needed there, though. Being stranded on the moon is most definitely the best course of action.


	3. KV 623

**Your name is Karkat Vantas, and forty-fucking-eight hours of straight walking haven't gotten you much of anywhere.**

You're still stranded in another cornfield and stuck with an incorporeal manifestation of everything that can and will annoy you. Your so-called afterlife guide is useless, and you've already tried to rip your hair out. Unfortunately for you, this ghostly form doesn't take well to change, and it also doesn't feel pain. It does, however, retain your personality. And that means that you're very, very tired of Dave Strider.

He's yet to shut up for much more than two minutes throughout this entire thing, and all he's been doing is blabbering about bullshit. You care about approximately none of it. Everything he says interest you about as much as watching dried paint dry again, crack, fall off, and turn to dust with the passage of time.

You've been biting your tongue, figuring that yelling at him will do some bad shit to your karma or smear your soul, or damn you to hell, but you couldn't care less anymore. At this point, you're just done. You are _done_ with Dave goddamned Strider, and you're about to let him know about it.

Of course, when you turn around to say it, he's just so goddamned into his discussion that he doesn't notice.

Is this what _Children of the Corn_ is about? You've never seen the movie, but wandering through another cornfield with this blabbering ghost-idiot definitely qualifies as top-tier horror to you. After all, what's more horrifying than spending an eternity being tailed by a well-meaning but utterly useless soggy circus peanut? Nothing, that's what. Absolutely nothing can cap that.

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" you finally exclaim, raising your vocal volume above its already loud default. "Seriously. Do you _ever_ stop fucking talking?"

Dave pauses. He shrugs. "Yeah. I guess I was just excited." He rubs the back of his neck and turns his face away from you, looking quite pathetic in the meantime, as he continues, "There aren't that many people out here, obviously, and it's where I tend to hang out. So, I haven't seen anyone to talk to in the past..." After a few moments of silence, he seems to decide upon an acceptable estimate. "Maybe five years. I guess I was just bored. I mean, I have _friends_ around here. There _was_ John, but I think he might have moved on, or whatever you're supposed to call it. My sister, Rose, and her girlfriend, Kanaya, are still stuck here, but I think that's voluntary. They claim it's because—"

"SHUT. UP." All civility is out the window. You just want five minutes of peace and quiet, and you'll get it if it fucking damns you to an eternity in hell.

In return, Dave steps back. There's a hint of shock, but you're getting some definite hints of fear. His hands are out of his pockets, fingers curled into fists, and he looks just about ready to punch you square in the face. Of course, you're not exactly afraid of this. What harm would it do, seeing as you can't feel pain?

And, as it is, it seems he also recognizes this, because he quickly returns his hands to their former place. He scuffs the toes of his shoes against the ground, though none of the dry dirt comes up when he does so. "Yeah. 'Course. Sorry about that. Like I said, it gets lonely without anyone to talk to."

"Great." You huff, turn your back, and begin to purposefully trudge onwards.

Dave remains silent. As usual, his footsteps make no sound. Nonetheless, you can see him out of the corner of your eye from time to time. He seems more withdrawn, often averting your gaze when he senses it landing upon him. His shoulders are slouched forwards.

He keeps this morose game up for hours.

At least three hours pass before you start to actually feel anything, though.

And, honestly, you're surprise you're feeling anything in the first place. You thought you'd be perfectly content without his jabbering, yet its complete absence has long since overstayed its welcome. In fact, you hate to admit that you actually _miss_ his talking. At the very least, it was something to drown out your own thoughts.

Besides, he _was_ helping you. You're sure he could be doing countless other things right now, but he decided to help you.

Damn. Conscience is a bitch.

"So, what? You just wander around this fucking corn-filled wasteland doing nothing all the time?" you mutter, a small part of you hoping he doesn't hear it.

The large majority of you, however, is relieved when he responds. "I guess. It's not exactly fun, but I guess existing like this isn't really _supposed_ to be fun. You're supposed to figure out what you want, get it, and leave. Sort of like Walmart."

Despite your best efforts, a snort of laughter escapes you. "Are you actually comparing the afterlife to Walmart?" You hadn't noticed before, but he seems to have a sense of humor. And it's not an entirely shitty one, either. Then again, you've been tuning him out for the majority of his one-sided discussion.

"I'm not sure this is technically the afterlife, but I guess it fits the literal definition." Dave shrugs.

You simply nod. "You seem to guess a lot."

"It's hard to know things when you've been stuck in limbo for nearly a decade." A thin smile punctuates this oddly somber statement. Then, as before, he falls silent.

You, having run out of conversation-starters, are left to once again wallow in your own thoughts.

**Author's Note:**

> comments, feedback, and suggestions are always welcome. you can also reach me at [my blog](http://tennantstype40.tumblr.com).


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